


Casualties

by Cytokiine



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Hypnotism, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Mental Coercion, Other, Self-Mutilation, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-05
Updated: 2015-08-05
Packaged: 2018-04-13 02:14:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4503936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cytokiine/pseuds/Cytokiine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>First Aid seeks to make sense of the rising body count at Delphi ... and discovers much more than he bargained for.</p><p>Universe alteration, set before the timeline of events at Delphi in MTMTE.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Casualties

_There’s something rotten festering on Messatine, and Delphi is at its core. I am no stranger to the dead and dying. As a medic, I have seen my fair share of both. But this place is fatal. I started keeping detailed charts a stellar cycle ago. The pattern I have seen emerging cannot be ignored. More of our patients are dying, and it is no accident. These deaths are by design._  

 _I’ve had my suspicions for some time, but I didn’t have concrete evidence to substantiate them until now. My spark is heavy with the burden of this knowledge. I wish that I could say it is coincidence. Negligence, even, because negligence can be fixed. But this… this changes everything._  

_Pharma is a brilliant doctor. When he was assigned to Delphi stellar cycles ago, I was excited to work with someone with a career as illustrious as his. In the early years, I saw him perform miraculous feats. I’ve seen him pull mechs from the very precipice of death. And yet, it is Pharma’s patients who slip away now, his miracle hands less a blessing and more a curse to those unlucky enough to fall into his care._

_No. They are not patients. They are casualties. Casualties of what exactly, I do not know. But when I conducted secret autopsies on our most recent dead, I discovered that all of them shared one commonality- they are all missing their tcogs. The implications are disturbing._

_I intend to reach out to my ward manager, Ambulon. I want to be sure about what’s happening. But I’m just a nurse. For someone like me to accuse someone like Pharma of murder? There’s a good chance I won’t be heard. There’s a good chance I will be censored. But someone has to know._  

 _I have attached to this entry all my datalogs and reports on the autopsies and deaths here at Delphi. In the event that something compromises my access to outside communications, I’m setting this message to broadcast automatically through the Wrecker’s subnet in 48 megacycles. I will deactivate it if I uncover evidence to the contrary._  

_If you’re reading this, Delphi is in trouble. I just hope it’s not too late to save it._

 

 

First Aid finished typing and stared at the entry for several kliks before setting it up to post and closing out. This part at least was out of his hands for the time being. Everything else would depend on what came from his meeting with Ambulon.

Rows of Autobot badges winked at him from the wall behind him, a reminder of all the mechs who’d entered Delphi and never left its sterile halls. All except one, and that one had brought its own share of misfortune. This medcenter was a place for the soon to offline. A grim outlook, but after the findings he’d made… First Aid reached for a datapad, already loaded with the autopsy reports. He could not allow this to continue. He would not allow this to continue.

He went to find Ambulon.

His ward manager was alone in the main medibay, tending to the victims of a recent mining accident. It had been a harrowing time. Triage was impossible when all their patients had sustained life threatening injuries. But the survivors were all stable now, and Delphi was quiet again. They’d made their peace with the ones they’d lost and focused on easing the pain of the ones they’d saved.

That was how it was supposed to be.

It was an artificial quiet. The corpses in the morgue told another story.

“Ambulon.”

He didn’t raise his voice, didn’t allow his concern to color his inflection. Ambulon looked up from checking on a patient’s vitals.

“I don’t think it’s your shift just yet,” the doctor remarked.

“I know. There’s something important I wanted to talk to you about in private.”

Ambulon glanced back at the scanner screen. The numbers all read in acceptable ranges. He cast his optics around the room in a quick assessment of his remaining charges, then nodded to First Aid.

“Make it quick. We’ll talk in my office.” 

It was a short walk. Shorter perhaps than he would have liked. But as First Aid closed the door to Ambulon’s office, he reminded himself that this wasn’t just an accusation, this was an intervention. That if Pharma happened to drop by the medibay and see that Ambulon wasn’t there, if he came round to his office to investigate his absence, well, it wasn’t a secret he was trying to keep. It was, however, something he wanted solidarity on before before Pharma came into the picture.

He handed Ambulon the datapad as soon as he was seated, then took a seat across from him.

“Please skim through that.”

Ambulon powered it on. He did not speak for several kliks, just scrolled through it, his face growing serious. When he looked back up at First Aid, his expression was wary.

“Tell me you aren’t suggesting what I think you are suggesting, First Aid.”

“I didn’t want to believe it either. But the evidence is there. We can’t ignore this, Ambulon.”

Ambulon frowned.

“This is Pharma we’re talking about. He’s a haughty jerk, yeah, but he’s not… this isn’t him.”

“They’re all missing tcogs. Every last one of them. Track the fatalities- Pharma’s numbers are incriminating.”

“Pharma is the senior medic. He works on the most desperately injured mechs. Statistically, it makes sense for him to lose patients more often.”

“Then look at these statistics.”

First Aid grabbed the datapad out of Ambulon’s hands, pulling up another graph. It had taken him quite some time to compile the data. He’d had to review death certificates stretching back over ten stellar cycles. But the final product revealed in arduous detail the ratio of lost to saved patients for each of them over time, and the chilling spike in numbers tied to Pharma’s name. He passed it back to Ambulon, expectant.

He anticipated sobriety from Ambulon. Perhaps disbelief, or discomfort. The numbers were disturbing after all. What he did not expect was anger.

“Just how much time did you spend on this?”

“I… I don’t know? Does it matter?”

“Yes, it matters! You’re doing it again, ‘Aid. First that erratic behavior with the badges, now this. You keep looking for things, things that just aren’t there. Except this time, you’re dragging another mech’s name through the dirt.”

First Aid clenched his hands. He’d known he might be dismissed, but Ambulon’s words hit a nerve. _Erratic._ Unstable, obsessive, _unreliable_ First Aid.

“I’m not crazy, Ambulon. You think I’m making this up? Go look at the bodies yourself!” he snapped.

“They’ve already been returned.”

“Then look at the next dead body that ends up in the morgue! I’m serious. What reason do I have to lie about this?”

Ambulon scowled, standing up.

“I don’t know. But I don’t want to hear anything else about your theory until I look it into myself. I’m holding onto this for now.”

He powered down the datapad and tucked it into subspace as First Aid rose, fists still clenched and spark pulsing with indignation.

“Yes _sir_ ,” First Aid said, then turned and left.

He kept it together just long enough to reach his habsuite. As soon as he hit his berth, he buried his face in his pillow and let out a long, muffled scream. When he finished, he went limp, vents slowly cycling air as he tried to quell the frustration that simmered in every line of his code.

It hadn’t been an unexpected reaction, he had to remind himself. He’d gone into this knowing his worries might be trivialized. He’d written his admittedly dramatic entry under the assumption that things would go badly for him. It was best to be prepared for a worst case scenario, even if it did not come to pass. All he could do now was wait. Hope Ambulon would follow through and do a little research himself. He’d realize quickly that First Aid was right. Because he was.

… Erratic behavior. If anyone was behaving erratically, it was _Pharma_ , not him.

First Aid blew a hot blast of air from his vents, then rolled over onto his side and offlined his optics. He had a few megacycles before his shift began, and his systems were still taxed from working through the patient influx. It would be wise to recharge while he could. Setting his chronometer, he slipped into unconsciousness.

 ---

 

Ambulon had already left the main medibay by the time First Aid arrived for his shift. Usually, they waited for each other to arrive before taking off, ensuring continuity of patient care. First Aid suppressed his irritation. Bringing personal conflicts into the medibay was unprofessional, and he’d expected at least that much from Ambulon.

His shift was a peaceful one. Though he could not see the sky from the medibay, he knew it would be soft with the dimming light of summer dusk. It was a pleasant change from the winter months at Delphi, when the sun was gone by mid-afternoon and the halls felt as frosty as their clinical decor.

His patients were mostly in need of recharge. First Aid finished his rounds quickly, then settled in to his usual routine of equipment maintenance. There was always something to fix. Taking time to keep up with the machines and tools they relied on in the downtime between emergencies meant they didn’t have to worry so much about something critical failing when they could least afford it. He was busy tinkering with one of the life support machines when he heard the steady tread of someone moving through the ‘bay.

First Aid looked up, and nearly dropped the wrench he was holding as he saw Pharma walking towards him.

“Evening, First Aid,” the jet greeted him. First Aid felt his spark stutter.

“Evening, Pharma. Can I help you?”

“Yes. I was wondering if we might talk. In private.”

He was filled with a sense of déjà vu as his conversation with Ambulon repeated itself, only this time, it was the subject of their conversation himself approaching and requesting to speak privately.

First Aid masked his nervousness and stood.

“Of course. Your office or mine?”

“Somewhere else.”

Foreboding slithered through his cables.

“Where?” he asked, cautious. Pharma smiled.

“Let’s take a walk. Clear the air.”

Against his better judgment, First Aid followed him.

 ---

 

The stars were beautiful on Messatine. On such an unpopulated planet, there was very little light pollution to obscure their brilliance. But he could not much admire them as he walked side by side with Pharma through the chill night air. They walked some distance before Pharma began to speak. The medcenter was a small blaze behind them- a solitary beacon of civilization in the miles of wilderness.

“Ambulon came and spoke to me after his shift,” he said, breaking the heavy silence. First Aid withered inside. He’d suspected as much, but the confirmation was still a difficult betrayal to accept.

“So, what do you want to hear from me? An apology?” he asked, sarcasm lacing his voice. Pharma laughed.

“Not at all. If anyone should apologize, it’s me.”

This took him by surprise. First Aid stopped, stunned, but Pharma kept walking. When he did not slow down, First Aid jogged to catch up again, falling back into stride with him.

“What do you mean?” he demanded.

“Just that,” Pharma replied, “You’re absolutely right about me.”

As his words sunk in, First Aid experienced a flood of emotions. First, elation. He’d been correct. Ambulon could not dismiss him when Pharma himself admitted to his crimes! Then, dread. Fear. Pharma’s confession had been too easy. Their distance from the medcenter ceased being worrying and became sinister. Because if Pharma was willing to kill for tcogs, why wouldn’t he be willing to kill to keep a secret?

“Why are you telling me this?” he breathed, stopping again. He refused to take another step forward. This time, Pharma did stop. He turned to face him, looking… sympathetic.

“Because you know. Because you’re bright, First Aid, and you’re determined. And there is no way you will be content to stay quiet. So why not be honest? Why not explain my side of the story? Why not finally share this burden that has tormented me for so long with someone who might understand it?”

“I don’t understand.”

“You will.”

Pharma turned to start walking again, but First Aid squared his shoulders and called after him.

“No. You wanted to talk in private? This is more than private. I’m not following you any further. Explain it to me right here, right now.”

Pharma chuckled, but complied. He stood with a hand on his hip, looking back at First Aid. His look of sympathy had shifted to one of amusement.

“A little on edge, are we First Aid? Relax. I’m not going to hurt you.”

“I don’t know that I should trust you.”

“But you do. You followed me this far. If you really believed so ill of me, that would have been a very foolish move on your part.”

“It remains to be seen how foolish a decision it was. Tell me the truth, Pharma. Why have you been killing patients?”

“First off, I’m not a murderer,” Pharma said in a patronizing tone. “I haven’t killed any patients.”

“Then why have so many patients died under your care?”

“It would be more accurate to say that I let them… slip.”

“Really?” First Aid asked, optics narrowing behind his visor, “And there were none you ‘encouraged’ to slip away?”

“I wouldn’t say none.”

“Then you’re a murderer. Not only did you consciously make the decision to withhold care- which is heinous enough! -but you sabotaged their own resiliency as well. And for what? Why are you extracting their tcogs, Pharma? Why are you doing this? Why?!”

The words spilled out of him in a passionate rush, until he was shouting by the end of it. He was angry. Angry and horrified and… deeply sad. With a shudder, he dropped his head, feeling his optics spill over with warmth. They blurred. He blinked away the tears.

“This isn’t you. This wasn’t you. I… I respected you Pharma. I respected you so much. Why are you doing this?”

He felt a sudden presence in front of him. Pharma. The doctor reached out, clasped his shoulders. Fingers lifted his chin tenderly so that he looked up into Pharma’s face, so very close now.

“That’s what I’m going to show you. I’m transporting a shipment tonight. You’ll understand when we get there. You’ll understand everything. Why I’ve had to do what I’ve done. Everything I’ve done, I’ve done for Delphi. Everything I’ve sacrificed…”

Pain flashed across his face, compelling and genuine and quickly suppressed. First Aid felt the urge to reach out, to comfort him. He’d been a friend. Someone he’d looked up to. He clearly needed help. But something else stopped him. Pharma’s optics were fever-bright, lit with a dangerous fervor. There was madness in his words. He was unstable. Dangerous. And First Aid knew with absolute certainty that he must not follow wherever Pharma intended to take him.

“Pharma,” he said with forced calm, “I need you to tell me. There’s no one else around. You can tell me.”

Pharma smiled.

“No, there isn’t anyone else around, is there?” he said. The hand tipping his chin up moved. Shifted. First Aid gasped as he felt a needle sting his throat. He lashed out at Pharma, but the doctor caught his hand, caught him as his limbs went weak and he crumpled. And he held him so carefully as First Aid’s vision flickered and his vocalizer stuttered, failing to produce more than a whimper.

“I said I wouldn’t hurt you,” Pharma murmured as First Aid squirmed feebly in his arms, “I intend to keep that promise.”

He offlined to the sight of Pharma’s face. Still mad, still terribly familiar.

 ---

 

At first, the only thing he was aware of was music. It drifted through his semi-conscious mind, coiling in his audials and drawing him out of his drugged stupor. It was old. Pre-war.

He put a name to it at the same time he realized he was tied to a chair, his hands bound behind his back and his feet strapped to the legs. First Aid raised his head to see the infamous leader of the Decepticon Justice Division himself sitting several paces away. Pharma was nowhere in sight.

First Aid groaned softly.

“Good. You are awake.”

Tarn’s voice was smooth. Beautiful. Dangerous. First Aid dimmed his audials.

“Where is Pharma?” he asked. Tarn tilted his head.

“I was going to ask the same of you.”

“Oh no…” First Aid whispered. It felt as though the floor was crumbling beneath him, his processor thrown into free fall. Pharma had promised understanding. He’d expected Pharma to be here. Somehow, his absence felt like even more of a betrayal.

“You’re one of the medics on staff at Delphi, aren’t you? First Aid, is it?”

“Yes.”

“Why were you sent?”

First Aid tested his bonds. The ties were solid. He leaned against the chair back, despairing quietly.

“He wanted me to understand why. Why the mechs at Delphi are dying. Why they’re… missing their tcogs,” he replied.

“Ahhh,” Tarn said, and it was a drawn out, languid sound that rumbled deep in his throat. “So you caught him, and he sent you to me. Well, little Autobot, I can tell you why.”

First Aid shuddered, but he couldn’t bring himself to look away. His attention was fully captured. At last, he’d have his answer, even if he wouldn’t have it for very long going by the D.J.D.’s reputation.

“The tcogs are for me. I have somewhat of an addiction to transforming. I wear them out so quickly, I’m always in need of replacements. So the dear doctor and I came up with an arrangement. If he provides me with an adequate supply of replacement tcogs, I will turn a blind eye to the Autobot presence in D.J.D. space and allow your medcenter and the mining operation it supports to continue existing. That is our standing agreement.”

Blackmail. This was what had gotten to Pharma. This was what had warped him. The mania in his optics made sense now, as did his words. _Everything I’ve done, I’ve done for Delphi. Everything I’ve sacrificed…_

It was still inexcusable, what he’d done. What he was doing. If he’d reached out for help, perhaps they could have found a solution. But in his pride no doubt, he’d taken it upon himself to handle the situation alone. That was Pharma. Rightfully proud of his talent. But talent couldn’t save him from this, and now, First Aid was about to become another casualty of his hubris.

Still, his spark contracted with a twinge of sympathy for the doctor’s difficult plight.

_Pharma, you idiot…_

“So. What to do with you.”

Tarn’s voice curled around him, interrupting his thoughts.

“Should I count you as another donation to this shipment of tcogs?”

A chill went through him at the Decepticon’s words, and First Aid flexed his wrists against his bonds again.

“Don’t bother extracting mine,” he said, just managing to keep the tremble out of his voice, “My tcog isn’t currently functional. I haven’t transformed in ages.”

“A medic who can’t even maintain his own biomech? How disappointing.”

“My time is better spent caring for my patients. If I get a little run down in the process, that’s just a hazard of the occupation.”

“Well,” said Tarn, his voice suddenly very compelling, “You aren’t caring for your patients now. Why don’t you give yourself a little tune up?" 

It was… a reasonable suggestion. Or no… no, it really wasn’t. Alarm flared in the pit of his fuel tank as he gazed across at Tarn. He’d heard about the D.J.D. leader and his peculiar ability. But rumor was one thing. Experiencing it for himself was another. He shut his audials off entirely, focusing on the internal thrum of his systems.

Tarn stood. With a measured, heavy step, he crossed the space between them and crouched in front of him, masked face close to his own. He tapped the side of First Aid’s helm, right over his dead audials.

First Aid shook his head.

Tarn leaned back, just watching him for a moment. Then, abruptly, he delivered a brutal backhand to First Aid’s face.

His head jerked to the side, and despite the protection offered by his visor and facemask, the pain wasn’t mild. He sat there, stunned, tasting energon while Tarn turned his head back to face him.

Again, First Aid felt the tap of fingers against the side of his head. Again, First Aid refused. Without an ounce of hesitation, Tarn took a step back, leveled his gun, and shot First Aid’s left foot.

He screamed this time. He couldn’t hear his own voice, but he felt it vibrate, felt it rip from his throat as his whole body tensed and kept tensing. He curled as far forward as his bonds would allow, but his movement was heavily restricted. When he felt Tarn’s fingers on the side of his helm again, tapping their inexorable request, he sobbed and very fearfully shook his head a third time.

Tarn considered him for a moment, then moved around to the back of First Aid’s chair. The medic fidgeted nervously, unable to see what he was doing. But the moment he felt Tarn reach for his hands, a jolt of panic shot through him. He switched his audials back on immediately.

“No, don’t! They’re on! I’m listening!”

Tarn’s fingers curled around his, dwarfing them. The Decepticon’s hands felt sturdy and strong. He was showing restraint now, but First Aid knew that he could easily crush his more delicate fingers without a second thought in a sparkbeat.

“Medic hands,” Tarn mused behind him, voice once again oil smooth in his processor, “Irreplaceable, I hear."

First Aid choked back another sob. His foot was a blaze of agony, and his face still smarted, but they weren’t the reason he trembled.

“I’m glad you’re listening now,” Tarn continued, “I want you to keep listening. I’m going to untie your hands, and when I do, I want you to open yourself up and remove your tcog. And then I want you to sit right here and fix it in front of me. And when you’re done with that, well, we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. Do you understand?”

First Aid nodded. Tarn gave his hands a squeeze, then released them.

“Good,” he said. First Aid felt him undo the ties on his wrists. A moment later, they were free, and First Aid pulled them close to his chest to rub nervously. Tarn walked back around to reclaim his seat across from First Aid.

“Go on then. Operate, medic.”

He reached into his subspace for his equipment.

It was, he reflected as he pulled out a small assortment of surgical knives, to his detriment that he carried around a fairly comprehensive medical kit. He lay them out on a tray that he settled on his knees, each one razor edged and capable of slicing through most armor with little resistance. He removed the protective cover from the first and just held it for a moment, gazing at his reflection in the metal. But Tarn’s compulsion did not allow him the luxury of hesitating any longer. Slowly, he turned the blade upon himself.

The incisions he made were clean and precise. The cuts themselves were so fine, it took his sensory net a klik to register he’d made them at all. But they were deep, and when the pain caught up with him, he leaned back in his chair, shuttered his optics, and cycled air. In and out.  Steadying himself. His hands shook slightly when he began again, carefully pulling aside mesh and metal until his internals glimmered wetly, exposed to the outside air. The rush of coolness was even more unpleasant than the burn of his sensory net. Selecting a smaller, finer knife, First Aid began the delicate process of extracting his tcog.

It took longer than he wanted. Almost longer than he was able to bear. It was a crude procedure outside of a medibay. Far more invasive to perform on himself than on another mech. He couldn’t go in the usual route and minimize the surgical impact. But at last he had the delicate, round bit of biomech in his palms, slightly pink with his own energon. He set it on the tray with his knives and paused to cauterize some of the small lines that still bled. The energon loss was minimal, but not to be taken for granted in the long term.

After cleaning his hands and his tcog with some solvent, he began to examine it. It was a little worn down, but not irreparably so. Not like Tarn’s. He’d seen burnt out tcogs- blackened things, the circuits completely blown. They were too delicate to reconstruct. Transplants were necessary. Which was why they were in demand on the black market, and why Tarn had made a deal with Pharma at all.

He felt the weight of Tarn’s voice, still compelling him, but he didn’t try to fight it. He allowed his work to consume him and sweep him away from the heavier train of thought that had returned. His world became the spherical organ in his hand, the sound of music from another age swirling around him, the dull ache of his injuries…

He only realized he’d finished when he set his repaired tcog down again, reality shivering back into strange, harsh focus as he was finally released from his geas. First Aid blinked. His hands curled as it occurred to him that this small interlude was his best opportunity to act. But before he could seriously contemplate escape, Tarn spoke up again, suffocating his resistance.

“No running off now, medic. Come here. Bring me your tcog.”

First Aid subspaced his tools again, except for one knife. He bent over his knees and cut himself loose in two deft motions. Standing was difficult. Walking was even more so. His injured foot could barely take the weight. Even if he’d wanted to earlier, he couldn’t have gotten away from Tarn. It simply wasn’t an option.

He felt more conflict over handing Tarn his tcog.

The leader of the D.J.D. gazed at him expectantly when he came to a halt in front of him. First Aid clutched the biomech to his chest, fighting the way his processor screamed at him to deliver it. His coding screamed back. It was his. His original tcog. Tarn would only burn it up like all the others. A vital part of him, treated like something so trivial. Expendable. Replaceable.

“Give it over.”

Tarn’s hand reached towards him, palm up to receive it. First Aid held his tcog tighter, the schism in his mind more pronounced, more painful. Because it was symbolic of so much more. He wasn’t just handing Tarn a tcog. The moment he had what he wanted from him was the moment his life was forfeit, equally expendable to the Decepticon as his organ.

“First Aid, give me the tcog.”

At last the compulsion was too great to deny. First Aid placed the little sphere in Tarn’s palm. His fingertips lingered over it, reluctant to break contact, but Tarn closed his hand around it, severing the connection. First Aid’s hand dropped to his side, hanging limp as he watched the Decepticon examine his biomech. He felt empty in more than one way.

Tarn made a satisfied sound.

“I’ll be certain to use this one next.”

“Does Pharma do the transplants for you too? Or is there another medic you use?”

The words spilled out of him before he realized what he was saying. Evidently, his forthrightness took Tarn by surprise as well. The Decepticon looked up from his tcog to meet his visored gaze.

“You have a mouth on you underneath that faceplate, little Autobot.”

“You’re going to offline me,” First Aid replied wearily, “Diplomacy won’t exactly serve me.”

“There are many ways to die. Some are less pleasant than others. I pride myself in being an expert on the subject.”

“Will mine be quick or slow?”

“It will be personal.”

Slow then. First Aid offlined his optics, swaying slightly.

“You should count yourself fortunate, you know. I am not throwing you to the others,” Tarn remarked.

“Why not?”

“Because this isn’t a punishment. You aren’t a traitor to the Decepticon cause. You simply made the mistake of getting in my way.”

He suddenly felt Tarn’s hands on his hips, steadying him, turning him. His left leg failed him as pressure shifted to his injured foot, but Tarn half lifted, half pulled him into his lap. First Aid onlined his optics again. He faced away from Tarn, his back rigid against the Decepticon’s broad chest. Tarn’s hands shifted up to his waist as he held him still. He leaned forward so his masked face hovered close to his audial.

“How do you think Pharma would prefer to collect you? Whole, in pieces? Alive, or dead?”

First Aid shivered.

“Will my answer change anything?” he asked.

“It might. How well do you know the doctor?”

“I thought I knew him better.”

“He was always capable of this. I may wear a mask, but I am honest about my intentions. Pharma lies with an open face.”

“Before he brought me here, he promised he wouldn’t hurt me.”

“Oh… did he now?”

Tarn’s voice slid a few notes lower, taking on a dangerous edge.

“So he thinks he can keep his hands clean of this? Isn’t that just like him.”

_I’m not a murderer. I haven’t killed any patients._

The lengths Pharma went to justify his actions. To remove himself from any blame. It really was just like him to make an empty promise...

“And what about you, medic? What would you have done?”

“I would not have made a Mortilian deal with the D.J.D. to begin with. But I take responsibility for my actions, no matter how poorly they play out.”

“Obscured face, honest mech... I was impressed by your cleverness earlier, you know. It is always a delight to work with medics.”

Tarn’s hands drifted to his. First Aid tensed. He felt a silent laugh vibrate in the Decepticon’s chest.

“I’m not going to break these. They’re far too valuable for that. But I do want you to use them again. I want you to show me all that they’re capable of.”

First Aid’s mouth went dry as Tarn cupped his hands and turned them so the palms faced upward, cradled in the Decepticon’s. A thumb brushed over the center of his right palm, teasing the sensitive metal. First Aid’s hand closed around it reflexively, stopping the motion. Tarn extracted his thumb and ran it over First Aid’s knuckles instead.

First Aid tugged his hand away.

“Let’s just get this over with,” he said, feeling several shades of unsettled.

“As you wish. Take out your knives, medic.”

They were in his hands before he really knew what he was doing, as if they’d materialized out of his subspace of their own volition. He stared down at them. They bristled in his grip, no longer resembling tools of healing.

“Cut here.”

Tarn trailed a finger down his thigh. First Aid selected a knife, transferring the others to his free hand, and setting it against his plating, drew a line that followed the path Tarn had indicated. Pink seeped up from the furrow he cut into his thigh. First Aid inhaled.

“Now here.”

Another slice. Another line of energon welling to the surface, trickling down his leg. He followed Tarn’s instructions until his thigh was a mass of gashes and exposed, torn mesh. Some of them ran shallow. Others cut deep, deep enough to knick the struts in his leg. Tarn slid his fingers into one of these while First Aid leaned hard against him and panted, his breaths coming rapid and shallow as he struggled to put the pain out of mind.

Tarn spread his fingers, widening the gash, and First Aid arched in his lap. A cry tore from his vocalizer, glitching and stuttering.

“AH! Ahh! A-ah… a ..h…”

Tarn removed his fingers from the deep gash, tracing them over a finer wound, and First Aid collapsed against him, still whimpering and shifting in pain. He’d managed to hold onto his knives. He clenched them tight-knuckled, their handles warping in his grip. First Aid thrust them back into subspace, only keeping two, still slick with his own energon.

Tarn’s hand drifted up to his belly. He drew a spiral there in luminous pink.

“When you’re ready,” the Decepticon said.

First Aid swallowed a desperate moan.

When he edged the knife into his stomach, he did it delicately. Energon bloomed under his blade, joining the pattern Tarn had drawn, but he was careful not to press too deeply. Tarn’s touch had been very light, after all. The pressure was as much of a guide as the words the Decepticon murmured into his audials. So when Tarn’s thumbs dug into his sides, drawing up in quick, hard strokes, First Aid cringed. He angled his two knives, positioning them so the blades just kissed his sides. Then pressing them in deep, he dragged them up in twin gashes.

First Aid’s helm fell against Tarn’s chest as he gasped, voice stolen by the fire burning from his hips to his chassis. His fans, already whirring hot, kicked into overdrive. Warnings flickered behind his optics, flashes of data that screamed at him about his rising core temperature and energon loss. He disabled the warning protocols, not wishing to track his own physiological decline when there was nothing he could do to stop it. Indeed, when he was the one dealing the damage.

Tarn’s hands dipped into the rends in his sides. The sob edging from First Aid’s vocalizer jumped to little cry as the Decepticon’s blunt fingers tweaked wires that were never meant to be exposed. He jolted in Tarn’s grip at the unexpected flash of sensation. His processor, already overloaded with pain, did not know what to make of it. It felt raw. First Aid squirmed away from his touch.

Tarn withdrew his hands and replaced them on First Aid’s hips, holding them still.

“Do not move away when I am touching you,” he admonished. First Aid trembled against him, venting hard and making small, pained sounds of distress. He gave the curtest of nods to show he understood.

Tarn’s hands smoothed over his hips, dipping down to his thighs again. One played with the exposed wires in his mangled leg, the other rested heavily on his undamaged thigh. His fingers teased a seam in the thin plating there. First Aid shivered, responding to a new kind of stimulus. He moved to close his legs instinctively, but Tarn’s command stopped him. He couldn’t move away, couldn’t deny him this contact. Even if…

His frame already blazed with the heat of his injuries, but a different warmth began to flood him as Tarn continued to tease at his sensory net. First Aid bit his lip hard behind his faceplate as pleasure mingled with agony, somehow easing and intensifying it simultaneously. He tasted energon as he gripped his knives even harder than before.

“Don’t…” he whimpered desperately.

Tarn paused, hands lingering for a long time before he finally abandoned his thighs. He found First Aid’s hands again and soothed them until his vicegrip relaxed and he held his tools loosely. Little tingles of charge ran from his fingertips up his forearms, going straight to his spark. A muffled groan escaped him. He was almost relieved when Tarn guided his hands up to his throat and pressed the knife blades lightly to the metal there.

They hovered just above major energon lines. One slip, and his fuel pump would end his life in minutes, emptying his energon out of his body in a violent spurt. He could visualize it flooding down his front, painting his chassis a glowing pink. And though it terrified him, the idea also tantalized. He was beginning to tire, to despair of the drawn out nature of his torment. His spark already felt smaller, weaker. If it went out… well… he wouldn’t mind…

“Not yet,” Tarn said, as if reading his thoughts, and he guided the knives away from First Aid’s throat again, much to his disappointment. He positioned First Aid’s hands so the knives pressed against his collar.

This time, there was no command. No murmured words, no voice in his head twisting his processor and smoothing away the hard edges of resistance. Just Tarn’s hands on his, pressing down, ordering silently. And yet, First Aid didn’t resist. The knives sank into his collar, following the paths Tarn guided him down. Together, they carved patterns into his frame, exquisite, weeping furrows that skirted his spark chamber on their way down his chest.

First Aid shook, crying openly now, but Tarn’s hands kept his steady. Even when he carved deeper, opening up his abdomen and pulling aside his plating to expose gleaming cables and biomech, Tarn kept him steady. He was beyond his limits, slipping in and out of consciousness, his own wails rising and falling like a siren.

He thought he felt Tarn’s hands inside him, looping through his viscera, but his world had ceased to make sense. The energon loss was too great. Everything flickered and blurred. He could barely make out the sparkbeat in his chest.

He heard a whisper in his audials, warm breath on his helm, but the words were lost on him.

Knives clattered from his numb fingers, and First Aid slipped under.

\---

 

It was unfortunate, Pharma reflected, that First Aid was so perceptive. He hadn’t paid the nurse much attention, especially after his demotion. He was always wrapped up in his own, strange interests, spending his downtime- and occasional shift time -reading Wrecker fic and datalogs. Hardly a threat to his operation… until suddenly, he was waving a datapad full of meticulously gathered evidence under Ambulon’s nose. First Aid pursued tasks with rare intensity when he set his mind to something. _Obsessive compulsive tendencies_ , Rung had said in his diagnosis. Well, they hadn’t just been restricted to his interest in Autobot badges apparently.

He hadn’t wanted to involve Ambulon or First Aid in this. He’d tried to keep them ignorant. Safe. As Chief Medical Officer of Delphi, it was his responsibility to ensure the continued function of the medical facility. But First Aid had uncovered his dealings, forcing Pharma’s hand, and there was a good chance he would have to silence Ambulon as well. He’d seen the data. He was a liability too.

Things were falling apart, rapidly.

Perhaps he’d acted too hastily. Perhaps he should have spoken to First Aid, tried to sway him to his side. But the nurse had already made him out to be the villain. And now… it was too late. Tarn would have snuffed his spark, one way or another. It was out of his hands.

He’d returned to Delphi, returned to his berth. Alerted Ambulon at the turn of his shift that First Aid was missing when he’d gone down to the ward to take his place. They’d searched every level of the facility, every possible room and closet he could be hiding in. They’d found no trace of him, of course. So they’d split up to search beyond Delphi. And Pharma found himself back at a place he hadn’t wanted to return to so soon. But Tarn would make his life difficult if he didn’t show his face. That was another part of their agreement- Pharma always delivered the shipments _personally_. He’d skipped out early on this one, not wishing to witness the torture as it unfolded. The aftermath would be unpleasant enough to deal with.

Tarn welcomed him with surprising grace despite his tardiness. He waved off Pharma’s apology as he ushered him into his habsuite.

“As long as you’re here now, doctor,” he said, closing the door behind them. And Pharma stopped, horrified, suddenly understanding the reason for Tarn’s cavalier attitude.

His hands clenched into fists.

“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded.

First Aid sat slumped in an oversized chair, a mangled wreck of a mech. His paint was dull, nearly gray, and his spark chamber was open, exposing his spark to plain view. It was a tiny thing, the barest flicker of pale blue in his chest. But he was still alive.

“He is one of yours, is he not?” Tarn asked.

“Yes, of course he is!”

“Good. Then I’ve not done wrong in sparing him.”

“He barely qualifies as online.”

“Yes, I have had to talk his spark back up several times.”

“Why?”

“Why have I talked him back from an offline? To keep him alive, obviously.”

“But why?”

“Oh doctor,” Tarn remarked, eyes glimmering cruelly behind his mask as he walked around him and stood beside First Aid’s chair. He turned his head to look at Pharma. “Could it be you wanted him dead?”

Pharma bristled.

“Enough with your games, Tarn.”

“You began this one. You didn’t greet me when you brought the shipment. You left me with an unconscious Delphi medic and no note to indicate what you wanted me to do with him. When he woke, he told me you’d brought him here so he could understand the situation at Delphi. So I explained our arrangement, and I had a little fun with him, and now that you have arrived, you can clarify your desires so I’m not making assumptions about your intent.”

Unbelievable. Tarn was mocking him, playing the fool in order to make him look bad. There was nothing ambiguous about this scenario, not where Tarn was involved. An Autobot showed up on his doorstep. This could not end any other way. And yet, he acted as if there was another choice. Worse, that the choice was his to make.

“Perhaps you should speak to him, doctor.”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” Pharma snapped, giving Tarn a steely look. “Just look at him. I doubt he’s even conscious.”

Tarn ignored his outburst, turning towards First Aid.

“First Aid, Pharma has arrived. Wake up. You cannot drift offline just yet.”

The spark glow in First Aid’s open chest pulsed in response. It was still small, still very pale and very feeble, but as Pharma watched, it gained in strength. Some color began to return to the nurse’s paint. It was an incredible thing to witness, but it made his own spark clench with dread.

First Aid’s visor brightened as his optics switched on.

“What…” the medic moaned, stirring in his chair. He tried to raise his head, but it required more effort than he could sustain.

“The good doctor is here to speak with you.”

“Pharma…?”

“That’s right.”

Tarn looked back at him. Pharma’s wings tensed. First Aid was coming back to himself very quickly for someone who had just moments before been on the very precipice of death. And he was in no way prepared for this conversation.

First Aid tried to raise his head again. This time he succeeded, though Pharma could tell it cost him. First Aid gazed across the room at him, ventilating weakly. It was impossible to tell what he was thinking.

“Tarn,” First Aid finally murmured, “Would you please hit Pharma for me?”

Tarn laughed.

“I’ll let you two work things out,” the Decepticon said, brushing past Pharma on his way out. “Call me when you’re done.”

And then he was alone in the room with First Aid. Silence stretched between them for a few sparkbeats before First Aid spoke up again.

“I cursed him every time for calling me back, for prolonging… this. But I ought to thank him. I have some things to say to you.”

“I don’t need a lecture from a nurse,” Pharma said, crossing his arms.

“Too bad. You’re going to get one. I’m _dying_. The least you could do is listen to me for once.”

“Say your piece.”

First Aid appeared to take a moment to gather himself. Or perhaps he was savoring the opportunity to speak his mind to a captive audience. Because unfortunately, he did have all of Pharma’s attention. Walking out now would mean dealing with Tarn. He honestly didn’t know what option he found more unpleasant.

“You’re a steaming pile of slag, Pharma. You’re a liar and a crook and a killer, and you absolutely deserve to have your medical license and all of your credentials stripped from you. You were mad to think that you could singlehandedly save Delphi. In your arrogance, you have condemned countless mechs to death, myself included. But more than that, you’ve condemned Delphi to extinction. Because you and I both know this thing you are doing is not sustainable. Or maybe you don’t realize it. Maybe you’re too caught up in your own twisted savior complex. So I’m telling you now- this is not sustainable.”

No, he’d made up his mind. This was infinitely worse than dealing with Tarn. And honestly, if the Decepticon wouldn’t finish the deed, Pharma was a little tempted to cut First Aid’s throat cables himself so he would _stop talking_.

“I’m not done, Pharma. Don’t you turn away before I finish.”

“Perhaps you should hurry it along before you expire,” Pharma replied caustically.

“No need to worry about my health. I’m holding on for now.”

“Because you know _so_ much better than me, First Aid.”

“Just keep listening. So. The path you’re currently on is unsustainable. You’ve hopelessly botched your stint as Chief Medical Officer at Delphi. I mean, truly, you did an incredible job of it. Turned a facility that had been running for stellar cycles before you ever arrived into a death trap. And when someone finally caught on to you, you had the audacity to promise them you wouldn’t hurt them. And it was an empty promise, because you couldn’t, _wouldn’t_ do it yourself. You had to pass that task off to someone else. You weren’t even there for it. You just dropped by afterwards to collect their body. My body.

But you know what? You know what the worst part is, Pharma? I do understand you. I _understand_ why you did what you did. And I can’t forgive you- this is unforgivable. But I look at you, and I don’t see a mech who is beyond saving. I want to help you. Isn’t that funny? _I’m_ the one who’s half dead, and I want to help _you_. Because… before this all got so messed up, it was done with the best of intentions, wasn’t it? You just wanted to protect Delphi. I can’t blame you for that. I just wish you’d asked for help. We were supposed to be a team...”

“Are you quite done yet?”

Pharma’s voice emerged glacial.

He’d started to tune First Aid out a few kilks into his diatribe. It simply wasn’t worth it to listen to him. And even after he’d changed his tune, softened his words and made an effort to empathize, it was too little too late. It just went to show how scant First Aid’s understanding of the situation really was. This _nurse_ , so taken with his own personal obsessions that it had merited a psychiatric evaluation and subsequent demotion, saw fit to criticize _him_? To imply that things would have gone _differently_ if Pharma had only solicited his help? It was laughable!

But Pharma wasn’t laughing.

And neither was First Aid, who seemed a little surprised by the ice in his response. He just sat there, watching him for a little bit before he gave a subdued nod.

“I’m done.”

“Good. Because so am I.”

He couldn’t stand to look at him anymore. Pharma turned on his heel and walked towards the door. Tarn be slagged, he’d accept the consequences for this later.

“Pharma, wait!” First Aid called after him.

“You had your time to speak,” he replied without looking back.

“But my body-”

“I’ll return to collect it when your spark has well and truly departed.”

He’d reached the door, ready to open it, when First Aid spoke again.

“Don’t,” he said. Pharma paused, glancing over his shoulder.

“What?”

“Don’t come back for my body. Tarn took my tcog…”

It took Pharma a moment to understand the request. When comprehension clicked, he narrowed his optics at First Aid.

“I’ll do what I must for Delphi.”

“I know. But Ambulon, he wants to think the best of you. Please let him. Let me disappear if that’s what it takes.”

Ambulon. A problem that remained to be solved. The ex-’Con was waiting to hear back from him. He would have to check in soon, in another cycle or two. He could not “find” and bring First Aid’s body back without implicating himself. He’d hoped to frame the D.J.D. for his abduction, but the missing tcog now linked them inextricably. First Aid would have to vanish. The circumstances would still be suspicious, unless…

“Have Tarn send a trophy back. Some evidence of your demise. We will all mourn.”

An alibi in exchange for a temporary deferral on Ambulon’s fate. He knew First Aid would accept the terms without waiting to hear him agree to him. But even as his hand closed around the door knob, he heard First Aid speak up again.

“Pharma, I’m not dead yet.”

“No,” he replied, “But you will be shortly.”

Then he passed out of the room, and beyond his old subordinate’s judgement.

Tarn wasn’t waiting outside the door. For a moment, Pharma thought he might be able to slip away again as he had earlier. But it wasn’t to be. He ran into Tarn around the third corner. There was no maneuvering around his coarse bulk easily. Pharma raised his head, chin jutting outwards with purpose.

“I’m expected elsewhere. I must be going.”

“Have you finished with him then?”

“Yes.”

“Did you finish him?” 

Pharma made a dismissive gesture with his hand.

“Time will take care of that, if you won’t.”

“You think you can just walk away from this, Pharma?”

“Yes, actually.”

He made to push past Tarn, but the Decepticon reached out and stopped him. His blunt fingers pressed into his shoulder, hard enough to make his plating groan under the force. Pharma cringed.

“I’m not yours to command. Clean up after your own messes,” Tarn said, and Pharma felt the threat vibrate in his very spark. But he could not allow himself to be cowed. He reached up, peeling Tarn’s fingers off his shoulder.

“Noted.”

Tarn tightened his grip.

“You are not leaving. You left ahead of schedule once already.”

Pharma narrowed his optics at the growl in his voice.

“Because _I_ am ahead of schedule. I delivered your shipment early this month, and given that I am in the middle of performing damage control to ensure that you continue to _receive_ future shipments, you would be wise to let me go.”

Tarn stared down at him, optics unblinking behind his mask, and Pharma felt a flicker of fear. But then the Decepticon’s hand relaxed and fell away.

“Go then." 

Pharma gathered himself and breezed past as Tarn stepped to the side to allow him passage. But his voice followed him down the hallway.

“One last thing before you depart though, doctor. You can expect to increase your next shipment by ten tcogs.”

Pharma’s wings tensed reflexively. Ten more tcogs? Panic coiled in his chest and sent filaments of hysteria winding through his vocalizer, threatening to spill over bright and unhinged. He shoved it down, untangled his emotional response from his physical one and forced his wings to relax. He could worry about the new number later, when he wasn’t in Tarn’s presence.

“You’ll have them,” he replied briskly, then continued on his way.

 ---

 

First Aid watched the door, wishing Pharma would return but knowing he wouldn’t. His spark still spun actively in his chest. It would take some time for the life to die down again, to diminish to nothing. Their confrontation had gone about as well as he’d expected it to, though he’d hoped for something more conclusive. But Pharma was gone again- well and truly gone this time. He’d refused to end his life, and instead of it being a merciful act, it was one of cowardice and malice.

A heavy tread approached from the hallway. Fighting weakness and pain, First Aid drew himself up so he no longer sat slumped in Tarn’s grand chair. He would face whatever fate awaited him with some small modicum of dignity. Tarn entered the room. As always, he cut a striking figure. Massively built, his entire frame boasted strength and solidity, but for the cruel-edged mask that concealed his face. It was the only delicate thing about him.

Except, perhaps, the delicacy of the material things he surrounded himself with. They were a strange contrast to the ruthless Decepticon, betraying some other facet of his personality. Or maybe they were just the exception that proved the norm. Beauty that only enhanced his brutality.

Here he was, philosophizing about Tarn’s better nature when he could barely move because of the mech. His processor was definitely shorting out.

“Pharma give you the brush off too?” he asked, not bothering to disguise the bitterness in his voice.

“I permitted him to leave,” Tarn replied.

“I’m still alive,” First Aid said, a touch peevishly.

“Yes. I came to ask you how you would like to offline.”

Behind his visor, First Aid blinked.

“I… get to choose how?”

“As I said before, this isn’t a punishment. And given your CMO’s behavior, I feel inclined to indulge such a request.”

… He could hardly believe his audials. The leader of the D.J.D. offering him mercy? It defied logic.

“How indulgent?” he blurted out

“Don’t press my patience.”

“N-no, I… ahhh, haha...” First Aid laughed a little, nervously. Contemplating his options while Tarn waited for an answer. And really, there were so many. Plenty of routes he didn’t want to take. Painful routes. But others that intrigued. Dwelling on his own death was morbid, but fascinating. There was a lot of room for creativity in the choice.

He felt a little guilty for not making more of an effort to survive.

“How do you usually dispose of the bodies?” he asked.

“We don’t. Leaving them for others to find is an effective fear tactic.”

“But if you needed to?”

“I would have Helex or Tesarus take care of them.”

Helex and Tesarus. One smelted his victims down to molten slag, the other reduced them to scrap. Terrible ways to die. He didn’t have any interest in offlining that way, but to reduce a corpse to anonymity? Good options. First Aid nodded to himself.

“I… have a bit of an unusual request. After I’ve offlined, I would like you to have Helex smelt my body. But cut off my hands first, and deliver those to Delphi please.”

Tarn just stared down at him, silent. Though First Aid could not see his face, he could practically feel the Decepticon’s bemusement.

“Why the hands?” he finally asked.

“They’re good hands,” First Aid replied, shrugging, “Medic hands. Someone should be able to get some use out of them. I like the idea that another person might carry on my work in my place.”

“You’ve said nothing about how you want to actually die.”

“Your voice. But not painfully this time. If you could just talk my spark down, that would be nice. Is that alright? Too indulgent?”

“No. Not too indulgent.”

First Aid exhaled, finally feeling a measure of peace. All things considered, this wasn’t a bad way to go. He was in full control of his end. Pharma would have his trophy, Ambulon would have his time. Precious time. It was worth much more than Pharma realized. First Aid smiled. His message would broadcast to the Wreckers subnet soon. Whether Pharma wanted his help or not, it was forthcoming. A posthumous gift. It would piss him off _so_ much.

“You are very strange, Autobot.”

Tarn reclaimed his attention from reverie. He’d moved across the room. Antiquated music swelled through Tarn’s habsuite. To set the mood, he supposed. Instead of the majesty or dread it should have invoked though, First Aid just felt free.

“How am I the strange one when you have a voice that compels people’s wills? Which, by the way, is utterly fascinating. Terrifying to be on the receiving end of, but fascinating. Have any Decepticon scientists studied it?”

“It’s your attitude. The same one that allows you to ask me that question without considering the wisdom of asking me that question. To answer it though, I am no one’s labrat.”

“Oh. I didn’t mean to-”

“I took no offense.”

Tarn walked back over to him, knelt in front of him, though he was still at eye level. First Aid suddenly felt very self conscious, sitting in this opulent chair. It was as if he was enthroned. He looked away, feeling the disconnect jitter strut-deep. His spark hummed in his chest, and he placed a hand over its exposed light to conceal the nervous way it flickered.

“R-right. Well, we’d better get on with it,” he said.

“Yes, we had better.”

Tarn nudged his hand away from his spark, baring it again.

“A shame though,” he murmured, and First Aid heard the telltale, seductive vibration creep into his voice that heralded the use of his ability. “It has been a real pleasure.”

First Aid shuttered his optics.

“Let’s begin.”

.

.

.

 

_There’s something rotten festering on Messatine, and Delphi is at its core._

_If you’re reading this, Delphi is in trouble. I just hope it’s not too late to save it._

 

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is dedicated to my Transformers writing muse, Thym. Thank you for listening to me whine all those nights while writing and editing this story. Your support means a lot.
> 
> To everyone else who has stumbled across this fic, this story was inspired by a couple things. Namely a desire to see First Aid interact with Tarn himself, but also to explore Pharma's psyche while he is still in mental decline, but not quite yet at the point of despair re: releasing the Red Rust. 
> 
> Basically, this was a very self indulgent endeavor on a lot of different levels. If something feels shippy, go with your gut. It probably is. Live the dream. Interpret subtext how you will. But in my headcanon, Tarn has a thing for medics. Just sayin'.
> 
> A few final notes: In this timeline, Pharma never has a chance to release the Red Rust. In this timeline, Ratchet still gets his hands, given freely. In this timeline, Ambulon lives.


End file.
